


A Single Art To Be Learned

by Siria



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 02:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5521349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A meeting in Bournemouth, England. January, 1967.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Single Art To Be Learned

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pollitt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollitt/gifts).



> A little Yuletide treat for pollitt :)

It was noon on a Friday and the tearooms were half-empty and airless. The plate-glass window that ran floor-to-ceiling along the length of one wall was an ugly modern wound on an otherwise blameless Victorian building, and set Solo's teeth on edge. The view it provided out over the beachfront hardly seemed worth it: Bournemouth on a blustery January day was bleak and almost deserted, a flat study in sea-glass green and grey. 

One of the tables in the window was already occupied, and Solo sat down at it. The woman facing him was what his mother would have called well-preserved. Crow's feet and laughter lines were proof of her age, as were her carefully set hair and the cut of her sober skirt-suit—elegant bespoke tailoring, but not the kind of thing that the girls were wearing on Carnaby Street nowadays—but she was still attractive. At first glance, she could have easily passed for the wife of a prosperous local doctor or solicitor, but there were things that give her away. The blue of her suit was a shade too bright to be worn by a respectable matron in a sleepy seaside town; the slash of her lipstick was entirely foreign. 

"Good afternoon," Solo said, setting his newspaper down on the table and nodding at the waitress to bring him a pot of tea. When in England, after all.

"You're late," Peggy Carter said. She was writing in a slim notebook, her pen travelling across the page without hesitation; she didn't look up at him. 

"There was a minor incident on the way down from London," Solo said. "It was handled."

"What a wealth of things can be glossed over with the well-timed use of the passive voice," Carter said. She finally capped her pen and set it down, slipped it and her notebook into her handbag, and took a sip of tea before leaning back in her chair. "You look terrible."

"I look impeccable," Solo said, affronted, and shot his cuffs for good measure. 

"You're favouring your left leg, and you're going to have quite the bruise on your jaw in a few hours," Carter said. One corner of her mouth turned up, ever so slightly. "But then, we're none of us as young as we once were."

"You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to insult me," Solo said. 

The waitress chose that moment to arrive with his tea, and with a tiered carousel of crustless, triangular cucumber sandwiches and little cakes which Carter must have ordered. Solo shook his head when Carter offered him some. He'd never reconciled himself to the British fondness for this kind of high tea ritual. If nothing else, the thought of all those discarded crusts made him think of how horrified his mother would have been at so much wasted food. 

"Suit yourself," Carter said, loading up a scone with jam and clotted cream. "Did you manage to get it all?"

Solo tapped his newspaper. "You'll find today's crossword is of particular interest, although I'm saddened by your tone. That seemed almost doubting, Margaret. Cynical."

"If that seemed _almost_ cynical," Carter said, cutting the scone into neat quarters, "I dread to ask about your recollections of Vienna."

"I have nothing but the fondest of memories of Vienna," Solo said with as much earnestness as he could muster. That was not entirely true but he had gotten out of there with the shirt on his back, so he was inclined to count it as a victory. He poured himself a cup of tea and then added a splash of milk. Stirring it, he continued, "Memories which include _you_ being quite satisfied. Three times, no less."

Carter's smile was sugar sweet. "Yes, you took instruction eventually."

Solo had vivid memories of that instruction—her thighs smooth beneath his palms, against his cheek; the taste of her rich on his tongue and the carpet scratching at his knees. Peggy Carter was not a woman who had ever had qualms in stating what she wanted. Solo shifted in his seat. 

Carter took a bite of her scone, and then picked up the newspaper, opening it to the crossword. It was already filled in, though with a jumble of numbers and letters rather than with actual words. Solo hadn't had the time to crack the cypher himself—the facility at Maryina Horka had not been as deserted as Ilya's informant had led them to believe—but whatever she saw there seemed to meet Carter's expectations. She nodded, refolded the paper, and placed it into her handbag next to the notebook. "I _would_ say that you went above and beyond the call of duty, retrieving that."

"Now, you'll forgive me for being so gauche as to bring this up," Solo said, "but there's something about your intonation and phrasing there that seems fraught."

"I _would_ say it, but the lengths to which you went to get this out from behind the Iron Curtain make much more sense once one realises that you've got a protective streak. Dormant for a very long time, I should imagine, but now here you are—risking your own hide not because Saunders is making you, but because of them."

"Them?" Solo looked blankly at her.

"Do give me some credit," Carter said. "I know all about your little team. They've been sitting in the far corner since before I came in. How on earth did you ever expect them to be unobtrusive if they do such terrible things to tea and scones? We're in Dorset, for God's sake."

Solo forced his jaw to relax, unclenched his fist. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Gaby shift at her table; she'd realised that there was something wrong. He'd heard stories about SHIELD, of course, and the lengths to which it would go, but the worst of those stories had never involved Peggy Carter. He didn't think she'd turn them in, but there went his hopes that this code would be the bargaining chip that he needed to get them all free, even Ilya. Back to square one. "I'm… that is to say, _we're_ not—"

Carter held up a hand to forestall him. "I honestly have not the least interest in your romantic entanglements, Mr Solo, so explanations are neither necessary nor desirable. Least said, soonest mended, though what on earth they were putting in the water in Brooklyn between the wars, I've never been able to figure out."

Solo blinked at her, nonplussed. Waverly knew about Gaby and Ilya, of course, but even he hadn't realised the rest of it—they had been very careful. Solo had made sure of that. "This is most certainly not how I thought this conversation would go."

"Well, if it had been, I would be quite surprised," Carter said tartly. "I never took clairvoyance for one of your many gifts. Now, I've arranged for transportation that will get you out and for the necessary people to look the other way when you arrive back in the States. I'm not sure how much you'll like your cover stories, but beggars can't be choosers. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm wondering how much this is going to cost me," Solo said, cocking an eyebrow. "I wasn't trying to get out from underneath Saunders' thumb just so I could end up under yours—delightful as the thought of being beneath you is at other times."

"You know, you are the most incorrigible, reflexive flirt I've ever met, and I've known both James Barnes and Howard Stark," Carter said, refilling her cup. 

"Thank you," Solo replied, "but all this flattery does not, in fact, answer my question."

"I've no desire to keep anyone under my thumb," Carter said. "Not to mention that I have a thirteen-year-old at home, who keeps me fully occupied when it comes to wrangling. Should you wish to settle down to a respectable existence on Long Island, with a nice house and some charming European neighbours, and never engage in anything more hazardous than fudging a painting's provenance a little, that is entirely your prerogative. If you choose to lend SHIELD your skills in the future, I wouldn't say no to it, that goes without saying, and of course we're always recruiting, if you ever do decide you want employment of a more permanent nature."

"I sense a 'but'," Solo said, taking a sip of his tea.

"Not a 'but'," Carter said. "A 'why'. Consider this full repayment for what you did in Vienna—no, not that part of it, don't be saucy."

"You'll forgive me for being sceptical," Solo said. 

"Yes," Carter said levelly, "I would. But you may be surprised to learn that I have debts of my own to repay, things which do not involve you at all. All I will ask is that you take care of them, once you have them safe."

Solo looked at her for a long moment. Carter didn't flinch but she looked, suddenly, much older. "Well," he said, "I suppose some of us did have a rough war."

The ghost of a smile flickered across Carter's face. "Wars, plural," she said, and called for the bill.


End file.
